


Bells And Whistles

by CharbroilLaFlamme



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Assassin - Freeform, Assassination, Costumes, Gen, Jester - Freeform, Laughter, Mentions of Blood, Murder, Sewing, Talking To Dead People, Undying Devotion, talking in third person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 03:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14535636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharbroilLaFlamme/pseuds/CharbroilLaFlamme
Summary: Cicero embraces his new face.





	Bells And Whistles

**Author's Note:**

> More Cicero stuff, yo!
> 
> (I might possibly be slightly obsessed.)

Cicero took on the new face of the Fool.

The bells and whistles and fabric scraps sewn together to make a simulacrum of the Jester.

The hat was a perfect reflection, and Cicero cheerily flaunted his new uniform before the murky mirror.

 _Perfect_.

Cicero had pricked his finger so with the needles. Blood was surely sullying it, but it was perfect. _Finally_.

It was crimson and black, and gold-trimmed. Shimmery-shimmery gold. With leather boots, laced up. And pockets for carrying. And dark, dark gloves for _killing_.

I had welcomed the laughter into myself with open heart. No more fighting. No struggles.

Cicero was prostrating himself at its great, looming stature.

Carrying out its deafening commands on lowly Cicero who gleefully accepted his duties anew.

Though he still had his obligations to Mother. The matron of death. Of _Sithis_.

He was contented with this new facet, new self, new _Cicero_. The obliging fool, the bowing servant, minion.

No words could describe now what I felt. Tickled so by the melancholy. Convivially bowing, awaiting orders, but also so very lonely without the sound of laughter to guide me. It was spirit. And Cicero once again craved for his Mother’s voice.

But no voice came. Nothing. Nothing for eager, obedient Cicero.

No kiss from his sweet Mother.

No validation. No love. No demands. No _contracts_. Just quietude. Her long breath held.

He could not bear the thought of more years dominated by silence. More years unworthy.

So, Cicero tried to be worthy. Tried so. Cried so. But perhaps she laughed at poor Cicero for being so foolish. For being so clinging. So hopeful.

He pledged blood and service to Mother. He praised her. He grovelled at her corpse. And sang his devotion to Sithis into the hull of her coffin.

So that she may finally _speak_.

But _nothing_ worked. His efforts in vain.

He continued his duties, humming songs to the sound-eating void itself. Whispering to her, susurrations in seclusion. Even cordially inviting her to make conversation was fruitless.

I... could not lie. I wanted so much to be the Listener. Only _I_ spoke to _Cicero_. And only _Cicero_ spoke to _me_.

But Mother never spoke to _anyone_.

Mother was pausing. To wait for her next Listener, to be thrust forth from regularity. Freedom from the constraints of normalcy.

From the path pf light and deep, deep into the bosom of the dark. The womb of shadows. The warm cockles of a cold heart.

Then she shall whisper... in the beckoning consciousness, of _them_...

_Darkness rises, when silence dies._

Then Cicero may die happily for _they-who-please-Mother_. And gladly cut down those who deign their authority.

Cicero will wait.

Cicero will _always_ wait.


End file.
